


A Tale of Theives

by Wordsmith8



Category: Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-14 22:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13599606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsmith8/pseuds/Wordsmith8
Summary: In which the Marquis de Carabas finds himself at odds with a character from his past, and steals several pieces of priceless art.





	1. Chapter 1

The Marquis de Carabas considered himself a man of his word.

His many successful dealings in favours had made him an impenetrable force, just short of a king in London Below, and undoubtedly the one and true master of trades and shiny bits left lying about all willy-nilly. Such a man should not, _would not_ ever need to perform a service for another just as sure as his coat had pockets and provided his many insurances of varying solidity held out.

Up until recently, such partnerships had in fact proved just sturdy enough for the Marquis to tiptoe gingerly about the Underside, avoiding the larger spats between baronies and keeping well away from any responsibility that might be unwittingly thrust upon him.

This was, until a certain character from his past decided to cash in their favour.

As previously stated, it was not common for the Marquis to be the one performing the favours. In his agreements, he made sure to keep the upper hand at all times, unless of course it was advantageous to briefly slide his neck under the knife (which, most unsurprisingly, this was often not advantageous at all). Only a select few would ever be lucky enough to have a favour owed to them by the Marquis, and even fewer would ever hear from him again after the fact.

So, one can imagine the Marquis de Carabas’ surprise at encountering a slightly grimy looking pigeon carrying an equally grimy letter about its leg as he made his way back from Raven’s Court. The Marquis paused in his picking the dark feathers from his lapel and stood before the bird.

“Why, a letter for me?”

The pigeon cooed apathetically and twitched its leg in a silent plea for him to hurry things along. The Marquis obliged and bent down in the crowded station to unfasten the paper. It cooed again as he stood, its feathers already ruffling in preparation for flight. The Marquis observed the spiralling penmanship across the front of the filthy envelope with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion, and upon turning it over, almost fell into the tracks. 

“Pardon me, but this must be a mistake”

The bird shimmied slightly in what the Marquis guessed was a shrug. It took off into the station and disappeared over the heads of the commuters from the Above, leaving him to gape after its meandering path.

As the Marquis fingers tightened about the thick paper, there came a thought into his head, which went as follows; there comes a point in one’s life when one is presented with several choices and a heaping pile of difficult decisions. Some may seem much more dreadful and difficult than the others, but there always presents itself a saving grace, a certain ‘easy way out’ of which the Marquis was quite fond. However, there may also come a time when such luck is impossible to detect, and we find ourselves stuck contemplating our measly choices with teary eyes and clenched fists.

This was one such occasion for the Marquis de Carabas, as he knew even before opening the detestable correspondence that his choices were limited and that none were sure to be agreeable. However, he would not be one to cry or become enraged. In fact, he knew exactly what needed to be done.    

The Marquis closed his gaping mouth, tore off the gleaming silver seal and read.

_Dearest Marquis,_

_As you well know by now, there is nothing I hate more than delays in the delegation of orders and any inexactitude in general. Therefore, due to this fact as well as a significant lack of time and patience on my part, I will skip the pleasantries and get down to the point of why I am writing to you._

_As you must remember (for you seldom forget your failures) you owe me quite the large favour. I must ask that you not attempt to evade this fact, for as you surely know, I have eyes and ears throughout London Below and Above._

The Marquis sniffed contemptuously at this. It was true, the writer _did_ have certain connections that even he himself could not boast, although it was surely an exaggeration to say that such connections were in London Above. None of them, not even the writer of the god-forsaken letter, could maintain such extraneous liaisons. Still, he pressed on.

_I will spare you the recollection of your missteps, although it would please me to no end to recount them. If you would be so kind as to meet me in the next floating market, I would be much obliged (of course, as you well know, this is not an invitation but an order. Meet me in the market or you will find yourself in quite the sticky situation)_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health (or poor. It makes no difference to me)_

_Most insincerely,_

_Iago de Montparlant_

The Marquis read the letter. He read it a second time, just to be sure that his eyes did not deceive. Then, he crumpled the paper, shoved it in his pocket, took a breath, and began to walk towards the Earl’s Court.

* * *

 

Iago de Montparlant was not a man of his word. In fact, he was not quite a man at all, what with his plumed physique, golden eyes and set of rather sharp-looking talons at the ends of scaly feet. The webbed fingers and gills didn’t help either; nor did his garbled speech and spiny tail. Yes, to call Iago de Montparlant a man would be a gross inaccuracy; something the creature himself would not tolerate on any front.  

“Has the Marquis received our letter?”

The pigeon cooed emphatically. Iago nodded, seemingly in understanding.

“Yes… Good, I must make preparations then. The floating market is in two days’ time, I’ll need my wits about me when we meet”

He rose from the makeshift writing desk and peered over the edge of the grimy window, down to the streets below.

The residence of the barony Montparlant was quite the unusual one. While most citizens of the Below preferred to keep to the sewers and abandoned areas, Iago’s predecessors had favoured the skies, and had long since set up their many encampments on the tops of buildings spanning the city. Structures such as the Tower of London, Big Ben, The Shard and many others held several settlements and hidey-holes maintained and protected by the Montparlant family. Each bore the family crest proudly on the entrance doors; a silver gilded bird perched on a reed, its slanted beak dipped gracefully over a rushing stream.    

Iago recalled this family history as he looked down on the city from his tiny sanctuary and felt an assurance and pride in his lineage as well as the astute pangs of vertigo.

It was said the floating market would be held in the Royal Opera House. Of course, to get there Iago would have to descend from his exalted home and enter the sewers with his fellow outcast brethren. The following 24 hours after his descent would be difficult to endure but not impossible, especially considering the reward waiting for him at the market.

“The Marquis will turn up… He can’t possibly be _that_ deluded,” he mused to himself.

Turning his attention back to the desk, Iago took up the rotary phone and dialled a number. After a beat, the person on the other line picked up. Iago gave a toothy, cold grin.  

“I’m on my way. We’ll have what we need soon enough, I have just the man for the job…”      


	2. Chapter 2

The Earl’s Court was much more crowded than the Marquis had anticipated.

In every which way he turned in the cramped train car, there were people; some talking animatedly, others arguing ferociously, tugging on coats and fixing buttons and selling contraband and staring out the windows, or quieting an assortment of companion animals of various shapes and sizes, combing unruly locks, opening doors, shutting them, then opening them again to accommodate more pandemonium. Within the Marquis’ view alone, there were a few Sewer people, two imperious Velvets, a rather dodgy looking eel draped around a short man’s burly shoulders, several dozen rats and rat-speakers, a sizeable murder of crows, a gaggle of tar-encrusted geese and a small cluster of dwarf-like people huddling anxiously near the doors. As he attempted to make his way towards the front of the makeshift chamber, he quite carelessly jostled a tall woman wearing what he supposed might have been a fine mink coat, but appeared more to be a messy clump of matted fur about her broad shoulders.

 _“Excuse me,”_ she hissed, passing a protective hand around the dirty fur. The Marquis smiled dazzlingly and drew his own coat about him more tightly.

“My fault entirely, madam. Please accept my humblest apologies”

The woman, who the Marquis thought was not quite a _madam_ at all, tut-tutted and turned her back to him, briefly clearing a path through the melee to where the Earl himself sat, half asleep and most certainly drunk, on his throne. Taking the opportunity granted to him, the Marquis de Carabas slipped down the opening like a shadow and ascended the few steps towards the dozing Earl.

“Quite a different view from up here,” He remarked casually. He suddenly felt the blunt end of a spear poke between his shoulder blades and, turning reluctantly, appraised an aged guard with a bored look.

“Get off the plinth, ye rabble,” the guard rasped. The Marquis sighed and brushed the weapon away from his chest.

“I would hardly categorize myself as part of the rabble. In fact, I’m not sure I qualify as a member of any group at all”

Unrelenting, the guard repositioned his spear and bared his yellowed teeth in an elderly sneer.

“The Earl won’t be seein’ you now. Get in line,” He gestured towards the mob with a free hand, “Or I’ll run ya through with this here.”

The Marquis observed the spear, then the man, and finally, the mob. Then, he let out a jovial chuckle and took a few strides over to where the Earl slept.

“Maybe you should reconsider a career path as a jester. You’re even better than Tooley,” As he spoke, the Marquis promptly kicked the Earl in each kneecap with his steel-toe boots. Equally as promptly, the Earl woke and screamed in pain.

“Well, it’s about time.” The Marquis folded his arms and waited for the theatrics to cease. After several minutes of piteous wailing, flailing and overall melodrama, the Earl’s scrunched and reddened faced looked up into the twinkling eyes of the Marquis.

_“You”_

The Marquis de Carabas bowed low, draping his coat across his torso and hiding a triumphant grin. When he straightened, his face was more or less impassive, but for a small twitch in the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, it is as you see. It _has_ been a while, hasn’t it?”

The Earl grunted and sat upright, wiping the purplish stains from the corners of his lips. “You are still not welcome here.” He stated gruffly, fiddling with his robes. The Marquis took a stubborn stance and sighed as though he were speaking to a particularly fussy infant.

“Remind me, who was it that came to the rescue of the Lady Door in her hour of need?”

The Earl grunted again, “Not of your own volition.”

“But I did”

“You repaid a debt; a debt that should not have been owed to you in the first place you cheating scoundrel.”

For a moment, guilt crossed the Marquis’ dark features. Then it was gone, and he was smiling again.

“Lord Portico was a good man, a fine man. He saved my life because he wanted to, I never asked. True, I protected his daughter because I don’t like to owe any favours, but I also did it out of solidarity for the man himself.”

The Earl scrutinized him, “No you didn’t.”

The Marquis deflated, “Touché.”

Rising from his throne with a sigh, the Earl beckoned him towards the small train doors leading to the library in the next compartment. “Come on, it’s too loud in here.” The Marquis followed him. As the doors closed behind them, the hubbub from the crowd was drowned out under the sound of the tracks.

“What is it that you want, de Carabas?” The Earl said, plopping himself indelicately in a red armchair. He seemed at once very old and wise, as he had propped a large tome on his lap and was flicking through it nonchalantly as he awaited the Marquis’ answer. The Marquis stepped forward and produced the letter from his coat pocket.

“I received this earlier today,” He turned the paper over in the torchlight so the Earl could see the seal, “I’m sure you recognize the author.”

The Earl squinted, then nodded sagely, “I would know the Montparlant seal anywhere. Helped us during the last fog, what with those clogged air vents and whatnot. The trains couldn’t run for weeks,” The Earl considered his reading before continuing. “A bit too chintzy a barony for my taste, but altogether a decent group” He paused suddenly and sat back in his chair. “What could they possibly want with you?”

The Marquis smiled and the letter disappeared back into his coat, “It’s not _they_ but _whom_. I have a particular connection that I rather wish I did not. Anyway, I’m not here to discuss how I know him, but rather how to get myself out of this situation entirely.” From another pocket, the Marquis pulled a small satchel and held it at arm’s length towards the Earl. “If you would give this to the Lady Door, I would be much obliged.” The Earl seemed to consider this and stroked his beard with an air of contemplation. After a moment or so of deep thought, something the Marquis didn’t think possible of him, the Earl’s face broke into a smile.

“You deal in favours, yes de Carabas?”

The Marquis frowned slightly, “Yes, we’ve established this.”

The Earl paused for dramatic effect, and stood. “Then I’d like a favour of you in return.”

There are times in one’s life when one must resort to being agreeable. The Marquis himself could think of many instances in which it was most beneficial to humor one’s enemy, no matter how heinous their wishes. A little pleading or finagling can certainly be necessary in such situations, especially if one’s foe happens to be much greater, stronger and smarter. However, as the Marquis looked on the Earl, he saw none of these qualities and decided that being agreeable was not a feasible option in his limited agenda.

And so, the Marquis de Carabas retracted the bag with a smile and responded quite curtly, “No.”

The Earl’s anger filled the room in a matter of seconds.

“And why ever _not_ ” he spat. The Marquis remained smiling despite the reddening of the old man’s face and the pitiful crumpling of the pages in the book he was holding.

“I only deal in favours when it is of absolute importance. I would not have myself be indebted to you for a matter as simple as this.”

“Then why didn’t you just deliver that hideous bag to the Lady Door yourself?” The Earl was beginning to tear the pages now, their delicate make tumbling through the air in his fit of rage. The Marquis stepped back to avoid the onslaught.

“To tell the truth, I’m not quite sure where she is at the moment, and even if I did, I have reason to believe that I would not be able to reach her. Also I don’t currently have the time to go looking for philanthropic little girls.”

The Earl sobered up for a moment and looked at him questioningly, “What do you mean?”

“After the defeat of the angel Islington, she decided to continue her father’s work in reuniting the Underside with London Above” His tone was steady, but the Marquis was quickly losing patience. He fiddled distractedly with the pages of a book on a nearby desk as he spoke, “Last I heard, she was in Camden.”

“And how do you propose I find her if even you can’t?”

The Marquis smiled, “You will, and you will do it for free because it’s for the Lady Door, not me.” He took the bag out again and dropped it in the Earl’s lap.

“Fine. But I get to look inside.” The Earl pouted like a child and tugged at the drawstrings of the bag. The Marquis shrugged and made for the door, disappearing back into the throng. Once he was well and properly gone, the Earl opened the bag and looked.

Then, he promptly gagged, tugged again on the drawstrings to close it, and vomited over the side of the chair.

* * *

 

Iago was standing over London Bridge, looking down onto the city. The sun was beginning to set, and he had yet to journey underground towards the market the following night. He muttered to himself, unintentionally ruffling his feathers as he rummaged through his bag.

Satisfied that all was there, he jumped gracefully from the bridge down to the streets, and disappeared into an alleyway.  

 

      

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo I just wanted to make a little thing and it turned into a larger thing which I will be continuing to write sporadically. I hope you've enjoyed it so far, more on the way soon!
> 
> Wordsmith8


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